


Ho Ho Ho

by Loracine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:55:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loracine/pseuds/Loracine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho." -<i>Die Hard</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ho Ho Ho

Sam had many reasons to dislike Florida. It was hot, sticky, swampy, muddy, and not to mention hot all year long. Those famous white sand beaches? Never seen one. Yet, for every reason Sam had against going to Florida Dean had a couple more. So, what had possessed the Winchester duo to drive all the way to Fort Walton Beach three days before Christmas? A possible possession case of course. Dean just couldn't let Garth hand it off to someone closer. That meant they hauled ass to bumfuck nowhere in the Florida panhandle on almost no sleep and still nursing injuries from their previous dunheel pixie extermination.

It took a grand total of two hours sweating through their monkey suits to figure out the whole thing was a bust. The suspect slash victim was suffering from a psychotic break and needed a psychiatrist instead of a Hunter. Sam felt almost guilty when they dropped her off at the ER babbling about the scary men and their magic symbols. Not guilty enough to stick around, though, and let someone see them.

That was how Sam found himself shivering on the beach the day before Christmas. Dean, never one to pass up a chance to indulge, the hedonist, refused to admit that a sunny beach in Florida could be as cold as sixty-five degrees once the sun set. No matter what Sam's weather app was telling them. He insisted on getting his suit pants soaked in the waves as his teeth chattered and his lips turned a curious shade of blue. Sam put his foot down and bundled them both into the Impala, heater blowing full blast, once he noticed how clearly those freckles were standing out against Dean's paling skin.

His concern didn't save him from Christmas morning. It was a Friday and Fridays were PT days. Growing up every day had started with a five mile run and a few character building exercises to cool them down. Since then they had picked Friday as a good day to keep up the tradition, the only day of the week. But not on freaking Christmas day. There was a rule and Sam knew if he looked hard enough he'd find it. Christmas was for sleeping in. Nothing ever happened on Christmas. Except for that one time last year and that time when he was nine... which totally didn't count.

He should have predicted the water theme. Dean liked the water. They both could swim exceptionally well, but Dean swam like he was born to it. And nothing soothed a pissed off big brother better than finding a pool or a lake and throwing him in. So, Sam should really have seen this coming. He woke sputtering out of a dead sleep, soaked and shivering with his heart doing the cha-cha from all that adrenaline pumping through his system. Yep, he was awake.

Dean laughed and danced out of range as Sam vaulted off the bed. He groaned from his new spot face down on the floor as yet more water soaked into the skin of his back. "Morning, Samantha," Dean cheerfully announced.

Sam looked up and found a super soaker pointed at him. He growled, actually growled, and Dean made a run for it. He didn't get far. Sam found the extra super soaker Dean had been saving and it had a full tank. "Haha," Sam exclaimed in triumph as a blast of cold water nailed Dean in the back of the head.

Dean emptied his tank all over Sam's flannel sleep pants and the back fender of the Impala when Sam used it as a shield. "Getting slow, Princess," he taunted.

Sam got in a few good shots of his own. "How's that knee, old man," he shot back along with a freshly soaked belly.

The insults got less and less creative and they refilled the tanks twice before the super soaker fire fight devolved into a good old mud wrestling match in the chilly morning air. Dean's muddy fingers poked at his ribs and, suppressing a giggle, Sam smacked him in the chest in retaliation. Dean let out a whoosh of air and grumbled about annoying little brothers with freakish ape arms.

The presents exchanged were practical. A new pair of boots for Dean. An almost-new winter jacket for Sam. A box of tapes for Baby. They watched _Die Hard_ twice, the second time with whiskey.

Sam laughed, his cheeks rosy from the alcohol, "Best Christmas ever, jerk." Not even Stanford had been able to fix his light alcohol tolerance.

"Bitch."


End file.
